


just a million miles from home

by DrowningInStarlight



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Season/Series 01, Set during that week they're stuck with Mr Ceiling, canon typical brains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:22:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningInStarlight/pseuds/DrowningInStarlight
Summary: Sasha talks to an old friend, and a new one.





	just a million miles from home

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Pump Shanty by the Mechanisms.

Sasha had always hated being trapped. As she'd been growing up, it had been drilled into her that the moment she was pinned down by the enemy she became more of a liability than an asset; and the kind of education she'd been given was very hard to unlearn. She'd learned she was okay as long as she had options, especially if one of those options was to disappear into the shadows before anyone could stop her. Being trapped made her skin crawl, her fingers itch for her daggers with an edge of panic. 

She hated being trapped, but that didn't mean she wasn't used to it. She'd spent most of her life trapped, in one way or another, even as every fight she got into taught her the importance of escape. In the stony cage of Other London, or the trap Barrett had woven for her with his subtle, silken threads; either way, confinement was in her blood, as much as she fought against it. 

She'd hoped, maybe, that the familiarity would help her now-- but she couldn't help wandering the corridors of l'Arc de l'Ordinateur like the restless ghost she'd so nearly become. She didn't even dare climb out onto the rooftop, unsure what Mr Ceiling would interpret as an attempt to flee. She was tied down. Staring out of the windows at the unseeing skyline of Paris quickly became too painful to bear, so she took to roaming the quiet halls, avoiding everyone. 

She found herself outside the brain room, often. Sometimes she'd just turn around sharply, head as far away from that monstrosity as she could. But sometimes temptation was too hard to resist; she'd slip inside, climb as high as she could amongst the softly glowing towers. She'd tune out Mr Ceiling's voice, pretend the warm glass under her fingers was old, damp brick and Brock was by her side, laughing as they climbed higher and higher. 

She knew why she couldn't stay away. Brock had always been the one she'd turned to for comfort in the harshness of Other London, and it had been a habit broken violently, only too easy to slip back into now. She missed that comfort, that company, not having to explain herself or be poised to run. She missed _him_ , the dull ache she'd become used to ignoring starbursting in her chest all over again. 

And now Brock was close, so close. She never thought she'd get another chance, already resigned to the fact she'd never get to say goodbye. And now he was _so close_ , but everything was so twisted, and it made her head hurt to think about it. She'd believed for so long that Brock was dead, and while that was a terrifying and lonely thought, at least if he was dead Barrett couldn't hurt him anymore. He could rest. 

Sasha didn't believe in an afterlife. But death had been the constant quiet underscore of her life, and she knew better than anything that the dead didn't suffer anymore. They didn't have to fight or run, the struggle over. They didn't _anything_ anymore. And in a way, wasn't that a kind of paradise? Certainly the closest thing pickpockets from Other London would ever reach. 

But this computer had ruined all of her certainty. Corpses wandered, brains sat, imprisoned; she remembered vividly that Brock had hated being trapped as much as she did. She didn't want Brock to be dead, of course she didn't. But she wanted him to be free. 

She hadn't cried since she was four years old, except over him. She wanted to cry again, now, staring up at the ceiling with burning eyes. Everything was lit from below by that gentle green glow, and gods, she hated it. Hated it for taking her best friend and not even caring. Hated it for the fact it still _was_ her best friend, somewhere, somehow. Hated it for the way her stomach twisted every time the others talked about destroying it. 

She hated it for making her lose her best friend _all over again._

A tear leaked down her cheek. She didn't bother to wipe it away. There was no one here but her and her ghosts, and if she was going to cry for anyone she'd cry for Brock. 

"I'm sorry," she said. She'd said it before, but it wasn't enough. She didn't think it would ever be enough to soothe the bitter, aching anger over the lives that had been stolen from them. 

"I'm not quite sure what you mean, Sasha," Mr Ceiling said. "One second--"

"Shut up," Sasha told it. "Shut up. 'M not talking to you." 

There was no answer. Good. That was good. If she heard that calm, electronic voice one more time she'd break something.

"Brock," she tried again. "Yeah, er... Hi again, mate. Missed you. Feels like a long time, you know? A really, really long time." 

She sighed, stared at the ceiling. 

"Anyway. Yeah. It's been a while. I've got some friends now, Hamid, Zolf... Bertie, I guess. Well, I dunno. You'd find him hilarious, though, I reckon, he's just so _awful._ I think you'd like Zolf. And it's kinda tricky not to like Hamid, even if he does make things difficult sometimes by trying to have morals and all. I still wish you were here, too... You know those dice we talked about yesterday? I threw 'em away, in the end, you know. Needed a distraction one time, back when I was still down in Other London. Figured there was no point keeping 'em if you weren't here to play with. Wish I'd--" she stopped to wipe her eyes. This was getting ridiculous. It had been years ago-- _crybabies are useless,_ Barrett's voice taunted in her mind, _and useless people go away like Brock did._

She took a deep breath. "Wish I'd kept 'em, now." 

"Do you require dice, Sasha?" Mr Ceiling cut in, jarringly loud over the gentle hum of machinery. "Because that can be arranged." 

"I told you to _shut up_ ," Sasha said, sitting upright. The stabbing loss hit her all over again, breaking over her like a wave. He was supposed to be at peace, she'd always thought he was at peace, not stuck here in some eternal green-lit hell. She didn't want to imagine what his last moments had been like, what they'd done to him: couldn't have poisoned him because that would have damaged his brain, maybe they'd used a dagger like hers, or left him to starve, or maybe Mr Ceiling had taken him apart with cold, clinical precision... Brock, who'd always been so alive, who'd always deserved to live-- 

She practically threw herself off the column, landing with an impact she felt all through her legs. Her feet slipped on the smooth floor for a moment, she wrenched herself up and ran for the door. 

She didn't stop running. 

 

She was two floors up when she ran into Hamid. Literally. All she saw was his confused face before they collided. She was up again in an instant, but she heard him hit the floor behind her.

"Sorry," she mumbled, starting to run again. 

"Sasha, wait," he called, but she was already gone. 

 

The room she eventually came to a stop in was small, a dusty old study tucked away in some forgotten corner of the building. There was a desk, bare, surface scratched; a small sofa, faded where the sunlight shone through the little window. She sat on the sofa, and wrapped her arms around her knees. She wouldn't cry out here, all her survival instincts kicking in, so she just sat and stared at nothing. 

She heard Hamid come in, of course. She didn't think he was trying to be stealthy, but even if he was she probably would have still heard him. Her bitter inheritance from Other London, sharp senses and lost friends. 

Hamid sat down next to her. Dust puffed up from the sofa, dancing specks in the beam of sunlight coming in from the window. Sasha stared at the carpet. 

"Are you okay?" he asked. Sasha shrugged. 

"Were you talking to Mr Ceiling?" 

" _No_ ," Sasha said. Her voice came out rougher than she meant it too, she quickly glanced across at Hamid. 

"Have you been crying?" he asked, getting a good look at her face, and Sasha cursed herself for looking up. "Oh, Sasha..." 

He hugged her, because he was Hamid, and that was what Hamid did. Sasha wasn't a huggy person, didn't think she would be even if she hadn't been raised somewhere when a hug ended in a choke hold; but she could admit Hamid's hugs were... nice, sometimes. She buried her face in his shoulder and tried really, really hard not to cry again. Hamid took her movement as encouraging, and just hugged her tighter. 

They sat there for a long time, even after Sasha had pulled away from the hug. Hamid had offered her the chance to talk, to tell him about Brock or anything she wanted too, but she'd shaken her head. So Hamid just talked gently, silly stories of him and Bertie at university. Sasha sat and listened, for a while. Gradually she stopped focusing, let his voice wash over her as she thought about Brock and Other London, about Hamid and now. 

She was so deep in thought she almost didn't notice that Hamid had fallen asleep on her shoulder. Good. That was good. He'd looked tired, bags under his eyes, hair ruffled. Sasha felt her breathing go shallow as she went completely still, trying not to wake him.

In Other London, if you fell asleep in front of someone else, chances are you'd wake up dead. She was torn between feeling warm at Hamid's trust in her, and frustrated concern that made her want to wake him up and tell him to watch out for himself better. At least she was awake. She could keep watch. If a robo-zombie thing came through that door, she'd been ready. It'd be dead so quickly Hamid wouldn't even have time to wake up. Yeah. She'd be up in an instant. Ready to go...

 

"Sasha? Hamid?" Zolf called as few hours later, as he wheeled himself along the corridor. "Hello? Have you been killed by the sentient brain machine?" 

There was no reply, so he carried on, grumbling to himself. "For Poseiden's sake, bloody quiet people, should make them wear bells round their necks so we know if they're still alive..."

He poked his head round the door and instantly fell silent. Sasha and Hamid were both there, fast asleep, golden sunlight pouring over them like honey. They looked as if perhaps Hamid's head had originally been on Sasha's shoulder, but Sasha had slowly slipped sideways until they were both lying down. It looked awkward and uncomfortable, but also... strangely sweet. Zolf quietly closed the door behind him. Team meeting could wait.

**Author's Note:**

> I've only listened up to episode 63, so no spoilers in the comments, cheers! All other comments are welcomed, though :D 
> 
>  
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr: @drowninginstarlights


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